


Boat Bondage

by Ohata_kaki



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Boat Sex, Bottom Elias Bouchard, Consensual Non-Consent, Cuddling, D/s undertones, Dissociation, Facials, Fingering, Fluffy bits at the end, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Reading, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Top Peter Lukas, and then more overstimulation, animal harm imagery, feeding fear entities with KINK, sub space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohata_kaki/pseuds/Ohata_kaki
Summary: It's one of those rare occasions where Peter is in town. He and Elias spend an afternoon at sea and what better past time is there for two monsters than feeding the powers they are beholden to? Aka, Some simple smutty LonelyEyes featuring a vain Elias and a rope top Peter.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 4
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a MINUTE since I've posted anything. Just got back into writing. And this is my first posting in the TMA fandom! Thank you to Bloodsbane for the beta and Jinchav for sending me a message that inspired me to post again. The fanfiction community never fails to warm my heart <3

Elias is thankful he isn’t feeling sick. The floor continues to rock, unmercifully, making him shift his weight from knee to knee to keep from toppling over. Peter glides back and forth around him as well, inspecting his work.

This is all to Peter’s design. It feels like an act of resistance just keeping his food down, staying upright in his kneel. Sadist he is, Peter would relish Elias green in the face. Vomiting, stumbling, slumping in on himself. Peter would punish him for sullying Lady Lonely’s floors, his eyes glinting as he watched the sick drip down Elias’s body. 

But Elias can stomach most things, shifting tides included.

Peter circles around to his side, crouching down to run new skeins of rope around his forearms. Elias looks out the window at how the horizon line sinks, rises, and tilts lullingly. It’s been a calm afternoon at sea. Seagulls lazily drift by; some in the air, some on their bellies in waves. Elias gets a flash of Sight from his husband. He’s (unsurprisingly) thinking of fishing. How the process here is in reverse—caching Elias and then fashioning him a net. 

The rope Peter chose is utilitarian. He had grabbed the skeins directly from the deck, just looped the husky twine around his arm casual as if he were about to drop anchor or adjust the rigging instead of methodically take his husband apart. He looked every bit the sailor captain fantasy leading Elias down to the cabin, his meaty hand gripped around Elias’s bicep. 

When Elias has his choice, he prefers more elegant dressings. If it were up to him, he would be adorned in the red silk cord Peter keeps at home. Elias wants to be strung up and photographed, his beauty documented for his and Peter’s future … use. 

The fibers scrape his chest as Peter hooks one length around another. Peter’s calloused thumb knicks one of his nipples, a teasing happenstance he hopes is repeated. Elias thinks of some of the things he’s seen Peter do on the boat to maintain those callouses. Peter pulls in full nets with his bare hands, he steers the boat by manipulating its lines. The whole sailing process is very mysterious to Elias. Reminds him vaguely of the web. The thought sends a chill down his spine. Particularly knowing how well Peter plucks and plays him when he’s all tied up.

Elias knows how his husband likes to run these scenes. “You don’t go to a fancy dinner for a good shit,” he can hear Peter saying, gruff and crude, “although you are my favorite little shit to take.” The tying is a type of adoration. Maybe it’s to make amends for the months he spends at sea. Regardless, Peter takes whatever time he needs to tie. 

Not that Elias minds; quite the opposite. It’s a great viewpoint to observe Peter in his element. His hold on the rope has a sureness to it that is only earned through daily ritual. He touches Elias with the same boldness. Peter hums and undoes a knot that doesn’t fit his exacting standard. The tendons and sinews of his arms flex in time with his movements. As Peter continues, the fog rolls in behind his eyes, rich and grey. Suffocating, Elias thinks.

As connected to the Eye as Elias is, blindfolds are a line in the sand for them in this type of play. But (somewhat guiltily) the emptiness that Peter’s knots afford him is not unlike closing his Eyes. The hazy space the Lonely sets him in feels like a fist’s grip loosening. It is as pleasant as it is nerve wracking. 

Ultimately, when he reemerges his Sight is fresh. The images that are given to him are unexpected and enlightening. So he’s willing to make the sacrifice on occasion when the benefits so outweigh the costs.  


After tossing a strand over Elias’s shoulder, Peter leans in close on a whim. His teeth scrape and his tongue licks hotly over skin. He wastes no time in sucking a bruising mark into Elias’s neck. Elias doesn’t hold back his moans—not like there’s anyone to disturb in the middle of the ocean. The ropes chafe his legs and hips where they wrap around, attaching calf to thigh. 

“Peter, please.” He keens, not above begging. Particularly where compulsion won’t work. “Touch my cock. I need your hands.”

Peter huffs a laughing breath, “I give an inch…” and continues running rope. Elias looks down at his own cock, pretty as ever, pink and delicious as it strains up toward his stomach. He tries to cant his hips and draw Peters eye, his head falling to one side of the pole behind him. 

It earns him a painfully tweaked nipple. “Slut,” Peter slings with a condescending fondness.

So it continues for some time, the whole thing taking on a rhythm between the rocking and chafing and yearning gasping desire that build without relief in Elias. By the time Peter steps back, Elias is lost in it, breathing heavy, body squirming of its own accord. 

Peter looks Elias up and down, surveying his work. Elias does not miss how his hand slips down to his crotch. He rubs himself tantalizingly as he appraises. 

Elias picks his own image out of Peter’s mind. It’s no surprise his husband is feeling bothered; Elias is gorgeous. Peter has played the twine around his body intricately. The patterns highlight his lithe figure and the color compliments his flushed skin. Peter’s mind flashes to an image of Elias draped in cum, his gaze heated as he licks what he can off his own lips. 

Elias moans, squirming in his binds. “Darling, darling.” He licks his lower lip. “Please paint me in your cum. I want to taste you.”

A hand grips his chin as Peter leans down to kiss him sturdy and possessive. And then he’s undoing his trousers, shuffling his clothes down to the knee. He takes himself in hand, stroking languidly. He offers his balls to Elias who gratefully begins mouthing at them. He rolls the skin between his tongue, immersed in his husband’s musk. 

“Those eyes of yours are insatiable sweetheart.” He continues to stroke himself, staring down at Elias who holds the gaze innocently through his mouthful. “Do you ever get tired of staring at yourself? Vain little thing.” 

Elias pops off to respond, “I can’t help it if you have a penchant for admiring beauty.”

Peter chuckles, “Modest too.” He smears his dick along Elias’s cheekbone. The wet streak cools in its wake. 

“Enough banter. Are you going to finish your masterpiece or not?” Elias goads. Peter doesn’t look impressed with his sass but grabs a handful of his hair anyway to yank back his head. 

It’s not cute, watching Peter fist his cock. He’s hunched and looming, his face contorted in pleasure and concentration. Peter is rough, unconcerned for appearances (at least his own) where Elias is near obsessive. It makes Elias feel a resounding pang of desire for this brutish sailor of his. He opens his mouth in invitation.

Warm spurts of cum hit his chin, his chest, his jaw, as Peter shudders through his release. Elias sticks out his tongue and Peter offers his dripping head, hissing as Elias sucks him clean. 

Peter gets down on his level after he’s come back to himself enough. This is the part Elias needs, despises, fears. Peter puts his hands on either side of Elias’s head. He holds him there for a moment, long enough to take a single placid breath, and places a too-cold kiss on Elias’s forehead. And that’s it before he’s walking away, up the steps and out to the deck. 

And Elias sinks. Sinks into the layers of fog that envelop his body. He knows logically he is still on the boat. But in The Lonely time and place blur. The mental squinting necessary to bring them into focus is enough to give him a headache. What is painfully salient, is that there isn’t a soul around. The horizon out the window continues its lazy shifting. No land, no other vessels, not even the seagulls now, are in sight. Elias breathes out shakily, steeling himself for whatever his spouse’s patron has to give.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias gets pulled back out of The Lonely, but Peter isn't finished with him yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, I tagged consensual non-consent because that was my imagined backstory and it's implied that they do this type of scene on occasion. But other than that, there aren't markers that this is consensual. It could read more like rape/non-con on paper alone. So if that's triggering to you, be aware and make decisions accordingly!

He never knows how long this part lasts. The fog of The Lonely takes over, chills his skin until it pebbles (although he never shivers). 

First the numbness will set in. He can simply be and forget and sit. Pick up handfuls of sand and let it sift out of the bottom of a clenched fist like an hourglass. More sand flows than could possibly fit in a palm. 

Second, some pain or other will inevitably make itself known. This time it is his knees will ache and the discomfort will make him think about time. The hours will be counted in seconds; he will be aware of each one. Questions of how long he has been here and how long this is meant to last hop with the sand flies around him. _This may never end_ they supply as they sink their teeth into his ankles. 

It is strange to know the steps to this dance but not know where he learned it. He tries to think of where he was before ‘here’, but there is no trail in his mind to follow back to that point. So he digs, creating cavities of memory that throb into headaches. Through the pain he see flashes of what must have been before—stacks of paper, a china cup filled with tea, a pair of glasses, a rich wood desk, a pipe smoldering. Until the pressure becomes too much and he abandons the endeavor.

Thirdly, mercifully, he will lapse back into numbness. A deeper shade tinged with hopeless acceptance. The fog settles. The beachgrass rustles. And the waves ceaselessly crash.

***

There is something on the water. A blurry speck, perhaps an eye floater. He rubs at his face with the back of his wrist and the blotch is still there on the horizon line. He does not let himself hope it is a boat. 

He is still squinting at it when he feels hands cupping the sides of his neck. They’re cold like the rest of this place, but not unwelcomed. They act as a syphon—in which direction is unclear—only that there is a flow of relief going between his body and the arms holding him. 

“Elias, come on back dear.”

Elias. 

_He’s_ Elias. Or at least in a way. Enough to anchor to. And that voice. That’s Peter. He’s sure of it even if he’s not sure who Peter is yet. 

A thumb brushes the lobe of his ear. God that just… _feels_. Elias aches to be touched and not touched. His vision clears and he identifies the face in front of him as Peter’s as well. He is in the boat he saw on the waterline. He is sat kneeling, harbored to a pole in the middle of the cabin. 

Peter crouches behind him, deft hands unwinding the knots of rope too quickly. Elias can feel his arms. They fall heavy to his sides. Elias can move his arms, he realizes just in time. He nearly faceplants under the new balance of having to support his own weight. Peter unties his legs just as quickly and sweeps him up in a bridle carry.

He is placed on a soft, giving surface. A bed he realizes many seconds delayed.  
Peter’s mouth is on his without warning, waterlogging him in tongue and teeth and lips. Peter gives him short reprieves to gasp for air only to drown him again. Elias returns the kisses through pure muscle memory. 

Peter’s breath smells of tobacco. His lips are salty and tingle on Elias’s own like seafoam. The remnants of The Lonely’s shore shared between their lips is calming in a small way, but—

“Peter, Peter, stop.” it’s so much.

Peter, to his surprise, does stop. Pulls away and just watches Elias catch his breath. Then he lifts a hand slowly so Elias can follow the motion, placing it over Elias’s chest and tracing it down the length of his torso.  
The best analogy he will think of later for the touch is to a cockroach crawling over his skin. It’s not scary in the sense that he’s afraid. Cockroaches don’t bite. It’s not even particularly gross—not visceral like mucous or mold is. The crawling legs, the dragging underbelly of a cockroach are light ticklish touches. But if a cockroach is crawling across your arm, there is some lizard-brain part of yourself that needs it off you NOW. One is repulsed by the _idea_ of it happening rather than the individual parts that make the experience. The bug is not supposed to be there. The reaction is to this thing invading your space, unbidden, and there was no way of stopping it. No way of knowing when it might happen again. 

This time Peter brushes down his arm. Which triggers Elias’s first flash of Sight back from Peter. He sees his own body rolling away, into, away, from the touch in waves. He hears himself moaning close-mouthed and pitiful. Then Peter gets a thought in the form of an image. Another one of his goddamn fishing analogies. He would be more annoyed if not for the tremendous stimulation of Peter’s hand and the accuracy of the comparison. Peter sees a cod flopping on the deck, desperate for breath. Peter holds it down with one hand, his knife in the other. He bleeds the fish from the gills before he cuts down it’s middle to remove its bones and innards.

A seam holding back The Eye rips open and all its Sight comes gushing through. He’s Seeing things he can usually block out. Minutia about the ocean below them and the boat they’re on, long gone horrors of storms, sirens, monsters met by sailors past barrage his mind. It comes to him from all angles, but Peter is also the closest Knowing and the easiest to capture. 

Elias sees disgustingly sweet things that Peter would never speak of (emotionally stifled as the Lukases are). He sees the raw affection that Peter carries for him. The joy he takes in sharing The Lonely with Elias. The gratification he gets when Elias feels so overpowered. Knowing someone outside his family can understand what it’s like to step back into a social world after a forever in his solitary oasis. 

Peter keeps touching him through the barrage. If he were to give Elias just a little more, envelop him in touch, Elias thinks his brain might shut it out altogether. But Peter is deliberately making that impossible. Feeding him bits and pieces of physical contact so it stays too much. 

Next, his knees are pulled apart. Peter is settled between them. The cogs in his mind turn lethargically; Peter has already slid his hand down his inner thigh. He realizes as it’s happening that Peter is about to wrap a slick, calloused hand around his cock.

“No no no no.” Elias chants. His dick quickly hardens under the touch. His legs quiver uncontrollably. 

“Shhh… sweetheart, you can do it. I’ve got you.” Peter coos, pumping Elias’s cock with insistent pressure. Elias can only whimper, so utterly overstimulated and helpless. He feels tears falling warm down his face. The Eye is delighted to rediscover Elias’s tears. They have become something of a delicacy in their infrequency. So long feeding off the fear of others will harden a man that way (heh). 

“I can’t,” he sobs. To which Peter takes some modicum of pity. He wraps Elias’s arms around his neck and lets him come, clinging to his shoulders and breathing in the cool briny smell that clings to Peter’s fishing coat.  
He’s being kissed through the aftershocks of his orgasm. It continues even after the reverberations subside.

It should be over. His husband has had his fun, it should be over now. 

But it’s not. Peter is rubbing his asshole, using Elias’s own cum to wet the runway. He’s biting Elias’s shoulder, slipping a finger in which quickly turns into two. Time goes funny again, everything simultaneously too fast and too slow. Elias has the passing thought that there is undoubtably a tape recorder whirring away somewhere in the room. That later he can listen back and hear what sorts of noises he is making. Because, mercifully, everything but his sight and touch have shut down. 

Peter finds his prostate and a knot in the core of him tightens. His body clenches so hard--his legs, his stomach, his toes. He feels his throat buzzing spasmodically. White spurts of come flow from his flaccid cock, which never had the chance to fill again. Peter is saying something into his ear. His lips graze his skin, breath ruffling his hair. 

*** 

Some time must have passed in between then and now because the next thing he feels is being enveloped in Peter. He’s clean and the room has considerably less light, whether from a setting sun or drawn curtains, or turned off lights. (He couldn’t care less what time of day it is.) His cheek is nuzzled into his husband’s furry chest. He guesses that Peter feels him stir because he’s rubbing at his back soothingly. 

Elias can See Peter focusing on how content he feels holding Elias. He’s listening to Elias breathe deep and steady. Peter’s pleased to have helped his overworked husband get some of the only sleep he’s had in months. 

Elias feels the needy way he clings to Peter. It’s sort of like hugging himself, experiencing his and Peter’s senses simultaneously. 

Peter feeds him their satisfaction in thick bolts of fleece. He’s making shushing noises that sound uncannily like breaking waves (Considering The Lonely practically raised him, maybe it’s not surprising he picked up the lilt of her voice.) Wrapped in the protective embrace of his love, with the boat rocking mildly, Elias allows himself to close most of his eyes—only for a short while. The archives will survive a few hours of rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! hey. I had fun writing this. I missed this, friends.
> 
> Send a comment, feed a writer!  
> Or come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ohata-kaki) where sometimes I post fanart. 
> 
> See yall soon, thanks for reading <3


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